Jack chuckled. "Well, no. I don't think Ianto wants to trade being himself. He's just so young still, only 26, and he has no idea what to do with himself. It's really quite sweet, actually," he said, smiling. "It's not in me to hold back so much, though. 51st century was a bit open. No labels or categories to have to fit into, and I think that's really his problem, categories." Ianto was an archivist that couldn't categorize himself, and was therefore struggling, Jack imagined.

"Anyway, enough about me," Jack said, waving his hand in front of his face. "Bertie, what do you like to do with your time? You mentioned actors, painters, poets? Funny you should say that. I've known a few men of that sort. Christopher Isherwood, for one, but you wouldn't know him yet. Marcel Proust, though, I'd imagine you'd be familiar with--great kisser. Didn't last, though; he was really immature. And insufferably miserable. 'Only in suffering do we realize beauty,' I mean, really?"